Monday, Dec. 27: The snow we got yesterday was the dry, light sort of stuff that gets blown into drifts if you get any wind afterward, so of course we got wind all night. And I mean, serious wind – it blew the (full) trashcans around on the porch, and repeatedly banged the porch swing into the railing. All night. Whew. We had trouble sleeping.
When I got ready for bed last night, I wanted to put on scent to snuggle into, so I picked up every full bottle in my “fall and winter” seasonal rotation and sniffed it, in order to choose. In the interest of time, I ignored all the decants (and, it occurs to me now, the bottle of vintage Emeraude in my bedside cabinet, which probably would have worked a treat). Tocade? Too smoky. Cuir de Lancome? Smoke level good, but too floral and light. Shalimar Light, Mariella Burani, Parfum Sacre? None of my usual going-to-sleep scents seemed right. DK Gold and Aimez-Moi were too cold, Tabac Aurea too sex-ay (what does that say about me? Likely nothing, I wear it before sleep pretty often), Jolie Madame and No. 19 too austere. Alahine too rich, Climat too aldehydic on top (though gorgeously warm underneath), Black Orchid Voile de Fleur too much of a floral veil.
Then I picked up Le Temps d’une Fete, and it was like Baby Bear’s porridge: Just Right. Which is weird, given that I usually don’t long for it in the winter. In warmer weather, I get lots of green notes and flowers out of it; in autumn I get the patchouli and woods as well as that haylike narcissus. Last night, I smelled warmth in there, and a promise of spring, and it was so beautiful that I couldn’t resist.
So I wore it again today. Lovely. (Except I’m a little concerned – the topnotes seem sort of wobbly. Is it getting age-damaged?!? It’s been stored away from light and temperature extremes. Or is my memory faulty?)
Semi-bad news on the farm front: 14 cull cows to market today. One cow with a prolapsed uterus (the vet had to come and stitch her up; likely she’ll recover but that particular condition always makes me cringe in sympathy). One cow with a broken leg – she’ll be in someone’s freezer, but not ours. Ours is too full of the last cow who broke her leg. (Technically, she had it broken for her, probably by the bull attempting to breed her on an icy spot of ground. I could make some rude remarks about males and their libidos, but it probably would not be much appreciated.)
Tuesday, Dec. 28: I got home from work at about 2pm to find The CEO pacing the kitchen like a caged tiger, snarling under his breath, “Should’ve been here two hours ago! And now all my help is leaving… Jeff’s going to his other job… Bookworm’s going to track practice… you just get home with the pickup… cows all penned up in the barn lot since 10 am and no medicine delivered yet… can’t do anything until it gets here… he said a little after noon, and he’s not here!”
(Is it any wonder I was hoping he’d get that job, so he wouldn’t be hanging around here snarling over vermifuges? Never mind, don’t answer that.)
SOTD: Dior Couturier Collection New Look 1947 from a decant. I’m attempting to review this, and since I feel that repeated wearings are the only way to get a handle on a scent for review, I’ll probably be wearing it again tomorrow.
Gaze wound up helping The CEO this afternoon, and apparently did a great job. It’s not surprising, he’s a conscientious sort of kid. Come bedtime, he was tired enough to be punchy, and while he was eating cookies and milk, he started to giggle for no reason. Then he came out with, “I’ve landed on an uncharted planet. No sign of intelligent life here!” and explained, through snorts of laughter, that he thought his 6th grade math class – in which he’s got a 97 average – was a wasteland of intellect. Then, he started wandering around the kitchen pretending to open and drink several (imaginary) cans of beer and then to toss the empties away. After the sixth pretend can, he exclaimed, in his most outrrrrageous redneck accent, “Well, that’s the whole six-pack. I’m out of beer, guess I’ll go meditate now. OMMMMMM!” while closing his eyes and holding his fingers in the prescribed position.
I shooed him off to bed, once I’d had a good laugh, but I could still hear him giggling to himself in bed. Taz doesn’t do that – if he’s horizontal and the light’s off longer than three minutes, he’s out cold. And then Taz is up with the dawn, singing quietly (insofar as Taz ever does anything quietly) to himself from under the covers. It’s funny. They’re funny.
Wednesday, Dec. 29: The CEO, Bookworm, and Gaze spent all day working cattle, giving them vaccinations against a plethora of cattle diseases, including blackleg and brucellosis (no, don’t go look that up, it’s gross, you don’t wanna know). I got home mid-afternoon and took care of my one chick left in the house, Taz, who wanted to play board games. Luckily my sister-in-law – the single one, who totally digs being an aunt – came over and played with him. I just don’t have the attention span to play board games these days, especially not with Taz, who is basically Napoleon in size 8 slim jeans. Seriously, do not play Battleship with him.
SOTD: Dior New Look 1947 + By Kilian Beyond Love. I wanted to amp the white floral notes in New Look, so I tried putting on a dab of Beyond Love and three sprays of New Look. Utter fail. All I could smell for the first three hours was tuberose (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and then after that the nice quiet drydown of New Look, which reminds me somewhat of my dear Mariella Burani, all ladylike powdery tonka-benzoin.
Thursday, Dec. 30: Dull boring day. Wore New Look 1947 again in the morning, and then the afternoon was taken up with Le Labo Aldehydes 44 + a bit of Teo Cabanel Early Roses to amp the rose notes in the LL. Eh, it’s not bad.
Patty’s got a nice pithy review of New Look ’47 up over at the Posse today, and from what people say about it, I’m not getting what they’re getting. I wanted what they’re getting. I feel cheated.
Friday, Dec. 31 : Gosh, where’d the year go? I don’t even want to talk about it, it’s depressing. Another year older and deeper in the rut… sometimes I think I’m never going to get out of here. I mean, “here” isn’t all that bad, as places to live go, but, well, it’s boring.
On the other hand, muggings (for example) are practically nonexistent. I live in a fairly rural county that contains two small towns and one larger one, the county seat, which was once an industrial center, before the Interstate bypassed it, and which is now home to the same ills as many inner cities. My policeman friends say we have a lot of drug crime – mostly oxycodone, locally known as “Redneck Crack”, speed, and methadone – manufacture or illegal sale, and the petty theft and the occasional B&Es associated with drug abuse. Not much in the way of impaired driving, though; I guess people on redneck crack either don’t bother to drive, or maybe they don’t have cars. We’ll also have a rash of stolen lawnmowers in the summer when people leave them in their yards, and of course we’ve got domestic violence, but everywhere seems to have that.
This past spring, a woman in her 30s who was trying to kick her Oxycontin addiction bought some illegal methadone. Suspecting that she’d been shorted, she poured the dose into the dosing cup she’d been using to give her three-year-old his cough syrup, and then walked into the other room to complain about the shortage to her boyfriend. Meanwhile, the three-year-old drank the methadone. What’s horrifying is that the woman kept the kid at home, just “hoping he’d get better,” for six hours, because she’d been previously arrested for drug abuse and was on probation for that, and she was concerned that she’d lose custody of her kids if authorities found out she had drugs in the house. She finally took the kid to the hospital when he began having trouble breathing, but by then it was too late, and he died. Her trial was held last month, and now not only is she in jail for breaking probation, for drug abuse, and for criminal negligence and child endangerment, but she’s lost one child permanently and lost custody of the others.
This is the kind of crime we’ve got: stuff that breaks your heart.
SOTD: New Look 1947 on one wrist, Le Labo Aldehydes 44 on the other. Try as I might, I’m not enjoying New Look like I should. Before midnight, I put on Mary Greenwell Plum. I’d thought of Iris Poudre, but when it came down to choosing, Plum won.
Saturday, Jan. 1, 2011: Whoa, gotta get used to writing that number on all my checks. We took down the Christmas tree (I have never understood why some people put their tree up the day after Thanksgiving and then remove it on Boxing Day – there’s nothing wrong with that, but it just seems no fun at all to me) and did our usual Saturday cleaning, and the TV was focused on football games all afternoon. SOTD: Parfum Sacre edp.
Aargh, and now I’ve got to get the farm checkbook up to date. A sensible person would have done this already; clearly, I’m not one.
Sunday, Jan. 2: The snow’s gone. (Finally.) After church – wearing New Look 1947 again, trying to make some sense of it and finish my review – The CEO dropped me off at his office so I could do a bit of editing on my NaNoWriMo novel while he took the kids to a Virginia Tech basketball game. I had a nice afternoon, and so did they.
Dinner was Beef-Vegetable Soup, which I always make by my mother’s recipe, but mine never quite tastes as good as hers. I notice I’m getting closer to it, though – home-canned tomatoes, of which we certainly have a gracious plenty, seem to make a difference. She uses an herb blend that I can never find at the grocery store; mine’s close but not exactly the same.
Image is from iris_iris at Fragrantica.